


Still and Silent

by lovetincture



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 01:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18906619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Sherlock slid into bed beside him. John didn’t strictly know what to do with this. What did you do when a grown man crawled into your bed for comfort?You comforted him, he supposed.Sherlock can't sleep, hasn't slept for days. John helps the best way he knows how.





	Still and Silent

**Author's Note:**

> She came into my bed  
> In the middle of the night  
> Said ‘I’m tired of sleeping.’  
> Said the world was going mad  
> She wasn’t seeing things quite right  
> Said the streets were bleeding
> 
> "Still & Silent" - State Radio

There was pounding. Pounding, banging, the scrape of a door. John opened his eyes, already reaching for his pistol as his vision cleared. There was a dark figure in the doorway. His sleep-addled brain pulled up explanations to the tune of  _ burglar murderer enemy threat. _

_ Curly hair, too tall, smells like Sherlock, _ it amended as he woke all the way up.

“Sherlock! What the bloody hell—” John uncurled his fingers from the gun and shoved it into the nightstand drawer for good measure. He’d taken to sleeping with it on the table beside him lately, within easy reach. It had seemed only reasonable after Moriarty, after he hadn’t had a nightmare in months. But tell that to his body. His heart was pounding in his chest, visions of sand, heat, and blood receding gradually and taking their bloody time about it.

“My apologies,” Sherlock murmured, and his voice was soft. Lost. He swallowed, and John could hear this throat click above the sound of his own ragged breathing.

His irritation vanished as his eyes adjusted to the dark, and he caught sight of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock, who looked as though every scrap of fight had gone out of him. Who looked abjectly miserable but most of all  _ tired. _

“Oh, love.” The term of endearment sprang from his lips unbidden.

He pulled back the covers, and Sherlock looked at the bed, just looked at it, for long heartbreaking moments. As though it might bite him. As though John might yell again.

John grit his teeth at the thought. Sometimes his anger turned him into a real monster.

Sherlock slid into bed beside him. John didn’t strictly know what to  _ do _ with this. What did you do when a grown man crawled into your bed for comfort?

You comforted him, he supposed.

John pulled the covers up around them both and smoothed them around Sherlock’s shoulders, tucking the duvet beneath his chin.

He looked at John, eyes haunted and voice plaintive. “I couldn’t sleep.”

John swallowed. “Can you usually?”

He could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually  _ witnessed _ Sherlock sleeping. He knew intellectually that Sherlock must sleep— he was only a man after all. At the end of the day, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes was just as beholden to basic human needs as the rest of them, but it was easy to forget.

With such a bright-burning lightshow of a man before you, it was easy to see only what he wanted you to see, the cunning detective with ruthless and passionless logic, all the deductive brilliance with none of the human frailty.

And yet John knew better, or he should.

Sherlock shook his head, looking very much like a child tucked in up to his chin. “Not usually, but when I’m tired enough—” He trailed off, and he must truly be feeling awful to lose his train of thought. “I’m tired,” he said again. “I’m exhausted, and I can’t sleep. Haven’t been able to sleep for days.”

His eyes were pleading, pleading with John to fix it, and John very badly wanted to fix it.

“What do you usually—”

Sherlock shook his head more violently, cutting off the question and causing his curls to flop this way and that, which only served to make him look younger. John’s heart hurt to look at it.

“Already tried it,” Sherlock said. “I’ve already tried everything.”

Okay, so. Not the doctor, then. Sherlock didn’t need John to be a doctor right now. He was an intelligent man, frightfully intelligent in fact, and if there was a scientific remedy to be tried, he could be reasonably sure Sherlock had tried it.

They laid beside each other not touching. The sound of their breath mingled in the dark.

“C’mere,” John said.

Sherlock didn’t move. John could practically  _ hear _ him thinking, calculating, trying to understand the how and why of it.

“Stop that,” he said. “That’s why you can’t sleep. Don’t worry about it, just—come here.” He patted the bed next to him in a way he hoped was encouraging.

Another beat. 

And then the sound of rustling sheets as Sherlock scooted closer by increments, edging his way toward John until their shoulders were just touching. That was a start.

John got his arm around Sherlock, slipping it behind his head so he could hoist him up, pulling him closer until the detective’s head was resting against his chest. Sherlock might have been taller, but John was stronger, and he was so light. John frowned and made a mental note to make sure Sherlock ate more.

Sherlock didn’t fight it. He let himself be pulled and positioned without complaint, and that more than anything spoke to how exhausted he must be.

John didn’t have a plan. He settled his arms around Sherlock, penning him in, holding him as if he could guard him from the unending maelstrom inside his own head. He let instinct guide him as he did something he’d always wanted to—he carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, slowly, just enjoying the slip of silky curls.

Sherlock tensed at the touch, but then gradually sank into it, the tension melting from his body as he sighed. He made a sound then, a quiet moan that was barely more than a puff of breath, and John’s heart clenched. He turned his face into John’s chest, nuzzling into the fabric and inhaling deeply.

John let him, ignoring the way Sherlock’s bony nose was jabbing into his sternum, just like he ignored the way the arm beneath Sherlock’s back was beginning to fall asleep. This was about Sherlock, not him. He was a soldier. He would deal with pain so Sherlock didn’t have to.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Sherlock murmured, wiggling closer so that he was almost laying on top of John. “It’s so slow. So steady.”

“Mm,” John hummed. “Good. Rest now, I’ve got you. You’ve got the work, and I’ve got you, so you can put it down now. Let me hold it all for you, just for tonight.”

He could say things like that just now. None of this felt real. It was like a dream, a time outside of time. It was a thought, a prayer, a wisp of smoke that would disappear by morning.

He kept stroking Sherlock’s hair until his quick, sharp breaths evened out and melted into light snores. When John finally fell asleep, it was with his fingers buried in dark curls, trapped and safe beneath a lapful of snoring detective.

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea from this beautiful song that I've loved for years, ["Still & Silent" by State Radio](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I0ySmqqlAOc). Give it a listen if you're at all inclined. I don't think you'll regret it.
> 
> You can check out my [original writing here](https://hopezane.com) if you're interested.
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture) | [Tumblr](http://lovetincture.tumblr.com) | [Dreamwidth](http://lovetincture.dreamwidth.org)


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